


Say My Name

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Bullying, Friends to Lovers, Insecurity, M/M, POV First Person, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25934956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: Written for a prompt.Firmus Piett muses about his first name, and its usage in bed.
Relationships: Firmus Piett/Maximilian Veers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Say My Name

Like most of my personal history and all of my appearance, my given name is quite run-of-the-mill. Almost manufactured to blend into the environment, which is, as far as I am concerned, a small useful blessing the likes of a mud smear on a forest camouflage armour. As a puny, weak and solitary critter in the habitat of the Imperial Navy, you gain nothing from standing out, everything by blending in with the ship and biding your time until the right chance to strike out at the larger predators.

The person I owe this suitably anonymous name was my grandfather on my father’s side. I found out when the Imperial government on Axxila set up a proper birth registry office, and we locals of the garrison were the first to input family information and DNA samples to the databank. I and my grandfather, whom I never knew, share our name with a modern-days professional gravball player from Lothal, and a historical figure – a Trade Defence Force officer, known to naval academy curricula for codifying a series of manoeuvres to protect convoys. It was unfortunate, for me, that this fellow’s name and surname both sounded a lot like mine, and that his family was rich. My classmates mocked me, which was easy to ignore. Less so the three of them who pulled me aside, waved a vibroblade under my nose and demanded credits by the thousands, _if your old-money folks want you back with your face whole._

As if, had I had that sort of old money, I would have gone to study at Quelii Sector Academy in the first place.

But I digress.

I have been content with being called nothing else but Captain Piett for years, once my promotion was finalized. I estimate that, between the last time I was on Axxila among friendly or familial acquaintances using my given name, and the first time a colleague in Death Squadron used it, three standard years and two standard months had passed.

Indeed, that first time was quite memorable, in the sense that, for several rotations afterwards, I berated myself for reacting like an absolute, pathetic berk. It was after one of the many occasions in which Admiral Ozzel had reaped the results of my planning, taken credit for the ensuing success, and mocked me for _nearly having a stroke when the Rebel scum started putting up a bit of a fight for fun’s sake_ – all of which in front of the local sector Moff. When I managed to excuse myself out of the command bridge and dash to the nearest smokers pod, to my surprise I realized General Veers had followed me. He glanced around the empty corridor, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said in a low voice, “Don’t let those poodoo-eating bastards get under your skin. My boys and I owe you our lives, Firmus.”

 _Firmus_. Almost a purr. Hundreds of times I had practised saying my full name and rank, to train my voice out of its Axxilan brogue and achieve that Core accent that came so effortlessly to Veers. Each syllable rolling like a sip of Alderaanian wine – something infinitely pricier and finer than what I am.

If Veers had slapped me twice across the face, my cheeks would have burned less than they did at that moment. I blinked like the tongue-tied idiot that hushed display of kindness had melted me into, forced my mouth to smile instead of gaping in shock. “Thank you, General,” I replied, while live reports flooded my brain about how large and strong and warm Veers’ hand felt on my shoulder, and what a pity it was that his arms were not enfolding me in a tight embrace. “Please, return to the bridge. I will be back in a few minutes.”

He nodded, and I thought I was deluding myself as I read concern mellowing his chiselled face. In hindsight, I likely was not, although the point that I was starved for sympathy and comfort to utterly pitiful levels still stands. That sweetly large and warm hand of his let go of my shoulder. I turned and holed up in the smokers pod, with a pounding heart and a flush under my uniform.

The next times we went by our first names, thankfully, were not so humiliating. As much as I loved hearing my name as he spoke it, after the first time caught me by surprise I learned to rein the joy in and keep it locked up to myself. Nothing but a quickened pulse and a touch of hot blood to my cheeks, which might as well have been an effect of the strong morning caf, since the officers mess occasioned most of those friendly encounters, when neither our aides nor, most importantly, Lord Vader and Admiral Ozzel were within earshot. He never objected to me calling him Max instead of Maximilian; nor did the use of his given name ever seem to fluster him as it did me, which served as a helpful reminder of my own ridiculousness.

It could have gone on like this. Max and Firmus, valiant comrades in the Empire’s service and good chums on the side, on first-name basis when it is polite to do so. For the rest of the war.

“Max…” I gasp with what little breath I can gather, our faces so close my lips brush his sweat-salty skin at every word. “Say my name.”

We are naked on my bed, he on top of me. My legs are hitched above his hips, his lube-slick cock is pumping up and down my arse, his hands pin down mine to the mattress, I squeeze back as if holding onto a safety tether during a hull breach, all that’s in my power to do is try to keep pace and rebound his thrusts and it’s killing me, my heart is clogging my throat and the tip of my cock rubs against Max’s abdomen, and nine hells I love him.

“Firmus…”

“Again—”

He makes a wonderful sound between a girlish sob and a whorish moan. “Firmus…”

I buck and roll my hips harder. More of him pushes into me, deeper.

“Again. Again, Max.”

Through heavy-lidded eyes, I see a toothy, drunk-like grin bloom across his glistening, red face.

“What’s with it, Firmus?” He lingers on my name, breathlessness and arousal cracking the Core lilt. “Are you afraid I’m… thinking of… of someone else?”

My cock picks this instant to give a harsh, warning twinge. I groan, my eyes shut and my mind almost blanks, but we’re not over the edge yet.

“Again, Max. _Please_.”

I hear him chuckle. He says my name again and again and again, until he’s growling it into my ear as I come between our bodies and he fucks me as fast as he can, “Firmus—don’t die on me, you kriffing—”, he breaks into a roar, spilling inside me so hard while my body goes limp that it hurts and I have no breath to yelp.

“Stars, Firmus…” Almost a purr.

Sagged onto bedlinen that reeks of manly sweat and fleet-issue shower gel, I slip into blissful half-unconsciousness with the stupidest smile on my burning face.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun lore fact: Piett has no less than three known namesakes in old and new canon - gravball player Firmus Rennet, Trade Federation Defense Force officer Firmus Kett (both of which are mentioned in this fic), and New Republic admiral Firmus Nantz.


End file.
